The beginning of a New Year's tale of madness and downfall

When I turned 13, my mom took me to a store where they picked out not a simple cotton bra, but a real lace wonder.

— Wow," the saleswoman clicked her tongue, examining my full, weighty fourth cup size, "the girl's are holding up like stones, she doesn't really need much support.

— Without support, even stones will sag," my mom reasonably remarked and smiled, admiring my happy face.

Our family wasn't rich, they rarely spoiled me, so this purchase became a special milestone in my teenage fate. On one hand, I felt like a grown woman.

Pff, no longer ashamed to change

for P.E. and catch the mocking glances of my girlfriends, thrown at the gray, worn-out rags serving as underwear.

On the other hand...

The lace fabric in a surprising way heightened the sensitivity of my already tender nipples. I walked, and it was as if I was being stroked and caressed, rubbed until a strange flutter arose in my stomach.

That year, I first began to touch myself in the bathroom. And for the first time, I didn't push away the hand of a classmate who squeezed my breast in a dark hallway after chemistry class.

It was terribly exciting, but then just as shameful.

I didn't even like the boy, but he kept catching me in the hallways, and I couldn't find the strength to resist the breath-stealing wave of languor and trembling that his greedy hands on my chest caused.

— Tits," he whispered in my ear, and my legs went so weak I had to lean against the wall. The touches gifted an amazing sweetness, a current running from the squeezed peaks of my breasts throughout my body. The classmate supported my quietly sighing body with one hand, and with the other he reached into the collar of my dress and, hurrying, sniffling, felt the non-childish volumes of my hills. A sweetness we shared in secret.

A week later, a friend told me that bad rumors about me had started at school.

I cried, thought about it, gritted my teeth, and made the important decision to transfer to another, specialized school.

There, I started wearing completely closed, baggy dresses, in which I looked not so much curvy as shapeless. And I never wore the lace beauty that had awakened me so early again.

Time passed, calm and measured, under full control. At 18, I deliberately had my first sex with a random acquaintance at a club. It was pleasant, then a little painful, then I sent the guy away. I felt amazingly light and free, you know, like being cured of a chronic illness. Intimate contact didn't bruise or break me, hip-hip hooray. I'm not that weak-willed doll from the dark school hallway, guys can't do anything to me now. So, proudly squaring my shoulders, I entered adult life.

And then suddenly, a year ago, at the serious age of 19, the ghost of my weakness, unfortunately, returned. Cry, my heart, cry.

It was all because of a banal faculty party before New Year's. I wasn't dancing, guys weren't interested in my gray smock and perpetually downcast face, everything was fine. But then the devil made me sit on the sofa next to a dozing unfamiliar guy.

A second, and I'm in an embrace. The dude just wrapped his arms around me, leaned against me, burying his face in my neck, and... started sniffling again. I was in a good mood, couldn't help giggling, and tried to carefully extricate myself from the unexpected "close contact."

No chance. This over-drunk fruit wrapped me in an iron grip of his arms, and, alarmed by my squirming, soothingly stroked me.

A warm hand passed over one of my generously endowed, natural curves. Paused. And repeated the path. I gasped. It was such bliss, like thousands of needles shot pleasure from my breast to my lower back and down to my buttocks.

The stranger listened carefully to my moan and opened his eyes, no longer clouded with sleep. His hands began a smooth, rhythmic movement, simply up and down. Up to the collarbones and again in a wave, disturbing the nipples, and diving under the breast.

My brain just switched off, control was completely blown away, I didn't even have time to curse the champagne I'd drunk that evening and my traitorous body. A few heartbeats, and I was already pressing my back against the guy, throwing my head back on his shoulder, whimpering plaintively. The stranger turns us towards the dark window, sideways from the dancers, kisses my neck.

His fingers unbutton the buttons at the collar. The dense material of my underwear clearly doesn't suit his taste, so he confidently, deftly unhooks the clasps. I'm not joking, with one movement of his fingers and through the fabric.

Me, with years of experience, can't do that. *Tzzz* and unhooked. "Magic," I think with the last brain cell that hasn't switched off.

Both of the stranger's hands immediately returned to the front, brushed over the freed skin, and were already firmly holding my breasts.

Music is playing, people are having fun, and we're sitting by the far wall on the sofa, pressed together like Siamese twins, inseparable.

He's no longer stroking, but rather pulling. Tugging with his fingers, encircling, then squeezing towards the nipple and pulling it forward. Again over the breast and to the nipple. Forward.

I'm gone now, quiet moans and weak whimpers when he tugs on the nipples. I reach for his hands forward, breathing raggedly.

— Hot," he whispers, "you're so hot, baby.

And he nudges, nudges me with his body into the corner of the sofa, right up to the window. Pulls my helplessly moaning body by the nipples.

While he grabs the heavy curtain to cover us from the others, I see in the dim streetlight from outside, my two large, swaying breasts with protruding, elongated, and for some reason bright red nipples. Then one of the nipples is grabbed by hard fingers, and I'm again covered by insane euphoria.

I look out the window, our backs are covered by the heavy curtain, and my heart is beating in my scarlet, swollen nipples.

The stranger lifts me like a doll, lifting me by the hips, making me lean on the arm of the sofa. Pulls up the hem of my dress and, with a groan, searches with his fingers under my shifted panties.

Movement, a hot search between our bodies, and he enters me. With a thrust. Piercing me with pleasure from the crown of my head to the tips of my heels.

— Yyy," I let out, arching. My crazily distorted face and the twitching of my breasts, sticking out like uncovered cannons, are reflected in the glass. A tousled head appears by my shoulder, the guy studies me in the reflection for a couple of seconds.

Exhales hoarsely. And grabs my nipples, eliciting a reaction he already knows—a series of pitiful moans.

— There's a good girl," he says with satisfaction, "we'll be quiet now, no one will notice.

And he thrusts with his hips, causing a wave of heat and wetness in my already conquered depths.

— Come on, baby.

A forward twist on the nipples, and a thrust of the hot cock inside. Again. And everything between my legs aches sweetly. Like that. And on the reverse movement, my wet pussy squelches.

He moves with broken thrusts, literally pushing me, nudging me by the vagina. Our reflection in the window trembles, the curtain fabric creaks.

I scratch the sofa armrest with my nails and ascend to the heavens.

Where there is only a thick, hard cock and hard fingers on the peaks of my breasts.

— Hrr," my partner exhales.

— Oo," I let out. And we start shaking. The juices of our orgasms run down our thighs.

The chimes strike.

(that's how it began)